The Demon and the City

evading the question.
    Jhai frowned. "I don't like to speak ill of a friend, but I must be honest. I knew it would get her into trouble one day. She took a lot of opium, sometimes coke, sometimes the new, more experimental stuff . . ." She sat down on one of the overstuffed leather couches and patted it, inviting the demon to sit by her side. "Can I be honest with you?"
    "I'd rather you were," Zhu Irzh replied dryly.
    "The girlfriend. Robin Yuan. You see, Seneschal, I believe in giving the more disadvantaged members of our community a chance, and Robin's been a good, solid worker. But I do keep a very close eye on my personnel, and lately, well, she's been behaving a little erratically. I made a few discreet enquiries, and there have been suggestions—nothing more than rumors, mind—that Robin has a history of dealing. Nothing on the police books, she's never been charged, but there are—rumors. Now if this has led to poor Deveth's death—"
    "Is Robin here today?"
    "I'm afraid she's off sick at the moment," Jhai said firmly. "Seneschal, please—don't think that I'm casting suspicion on Robin. It's just that it's better to be open about these things, even if it casts doubt on myself as an employer."
    Her beautiful eyes were guileless, but Zhu Irzh was left in no doubt that suspicion was exactly what Jhai had intended to cast. His admiration rose. The girl would do well in Hell, no doubt about it. And she was still having this unfortunate effect upon him . . . desire was washing over him in waves, making it difficult to think. If the interview got protracted, he'd have to make an excuse to visit the bathroom and do something about it, undignified though this might be. Any notions he might have had of dominating this particular interview were well past their sell-by date.
    The secretary glided in with tea. Zhu Irzh sipped it, wondering absently what variety it might be; it had a faint sweetness, like decay, but it was not unpleasant and it helped to clear his head a little.
    "I'm terribly sorry," he heard himself saying. "But in fact, it wasn't an overdose. I'm afraid your friend was murdered."
    Jhai went cold and still. "Tell me what you know," she whispered. Zhu Irzh gave her an edited version of events, omitting the missing body. Despite the ache in his groin, he managed to extract from her a reasonable summary of her recent movements, but it was a formality and they both knew it. The woman who owned Paugeng would have little trouble in buying an alibi. The demon wound the interview to a close, and rose to leave.
    "I'm very grateful to you," Jhai said softly. She reached out and touched his arm. He looked down into her eyes, and saw a dark golden glitter in their depths. She leaned forward again. His mouth brushed the air, and she stepped back. "I know you'll find the person responsible for this," she said, as the secretary appeared to show him to the door, and even through the haze of need and desire, Zhu Irzh thought he glimpsed the unmistakable odor of a threat.

Ten
    Robin was wondering, vaguely, why she felt so dreadful. She had started feeling ill some time ago, the morning after her visit to Deveth's family. It was an actual, physical pain lodged in her muscles: a burning, flulike ache. Her head pounded, and there was a tight constriction in her chest, which made breathing painful. She sat up and was seized by a fit of coughing, which rattled alarmingly in her chest. Heaving her reluctant body out of bed, she rooted in the bag for Malian Sardai's headache pills, and took one. There were several left. It seemed to abate the pain in her head a little, but she felt so tired, yet she must have slept for a good nine hours. An appalled glance at the dial of the clock showed her that it was much longer than that: she was already an hour late for work. If she took the day off, she was sure she'd be fined. One afternoon, with Jhai Tserai's permission, was all very well, but calling in sick immediately afterward was not a good idea. The fines were comparatively minimal—Paugeng was a caring company—but Robin couldn't afford it anyway. She took a shower and felt marginally better.
    She left the flat early, wrapped in a parka against the day, which was already becoming hot. She couldn't seem to get warm, in spite of the weather and the thick coat, yet she was sweating. She forced herself past the Shaopeng stop, and walked on to Embaya Street, where the herbalists were opening. The man wanted to do a full